Sing, Goddess
by Polemokrateia
Summary: Yet another retelling of the Trojan War cycle. Tired of those yet? But we all know there can never be too many. Let's try to approach it from the beginning. And... not disrespect the source material too much, if possible.
1. The spiral: gold

Sing, Kalliope of the beautiful voice – who better than You! – of the workings of the world, mercurial and unchanging.

Of five ages, flowing one after the other, a twirling spiral of five different metals - a serpentine chimera devouring and regurgitating itself without end.

Five races of men followed one another, each one different from those that came before. They did not leave behind much for their successors, much less those successors understood.

Gold. Silver. Copper. Bronze. Iron. Human lives grow steadily shorter, Gods inevitably further with every step taken, with each coil of the wheeling spiral.

Only the oldest of the Olympians remember anything definite about the golden age, though they seldom tell.

Ouranides Kronos ruled that time with His wife Rhea. The young Earth was generous, rich in fruits, grain and honey, and those who walked upon Her then saw little difference between deadly Thanatos and Hypnos with His wreath of white poppies.

But that fabled, glittering race dissolved into eternity, became kind daimones, and, of all the places in the world, only the Isles of the Blessed heavy cares, so charitably gifted to humanity by Pandora, avoid – but who can reach them anymore?

Still, the illusion is persistent. Simply extend your hand – you could almost touch that happy world.

Here it is - shining gold, the sun in its zenith. Mountaintops embraced by the heavens, truth that does not hide behind endless veils, a youthful world without cracks, full of habitual violence and blinding immaculate beauty.

Glory impervious to rust, the face of Helios not yet hidden behind clouds, lavish banquets enjoyed by both the Gods above and mortal kings with their retinues.

It is still easy to forget the finality of mankind's fate, so similar to that of an anthill one accidentally crushes in blind haste.

The fissure between earth and heaven is tiny for now, and it is still not impossible to meet Dike, the lady of justice.

Sweat comes because of heat rather than from exhaustion, and men have yet to realize that all peace reeks of inevitable war.

Not for long. That half-remembered bliss is all too fragile, and pitiless Ananke is ready to spin the wheel of time – quickly, quickly, one more turn closer to insanity. Change is the only constant, peace as ephemeral as autumn's delicate gold.

Picture a glistening apple inscribed "To the most beautiful". Doves, embroidered on a veil of deep blue. Mykene's lion, gorged on wine yet thirsting for blood. Horses of immortal breed, a singer's voice among reverent silence, a field of wheat awaiting harvest, a heavenly swan's embrace, and that wondrous egg, not yet split into two halves of sorrow and joy.


	2. The weight of humanity

The voice of bronze in all its resounding might seems to have settled in this cave for all time.

Swords striking shields – tireless, thunderous. Best music in existence. Once heard, it will fill the world's memory forever.

Countless heartbeats in one.

Kouretes. Warlike, audacious, young – it had been their thunderous racket that once protected a newborn child from a father who would swallow his own progeny.

It was enough.

That father – Ouranides Kronos – long inhabits the depths of Tartaros, whereas the infant…

Zeus Aigiokhos stands in the Diktean cave, His gaze never leaving that pile of ancient arms, left thoughtlessly on the floor.

Were anyone to take these useless pieces of bronze, to raise a din – would it reverberate throughout all of existence?

Not likely.

There is rust everywhere.

He does not turn around when stone itself begins to breathe.

When the Earth suddenly trembles, Her smouldering magma-blood flowing perhaps a finger's breadth below the surface.

That is in no way unusual.

Grandmother Gaea has awakened for a short time.

Inhaled, sending ripples through hard rock. Every move permeates all, from the furnace-heart of Her core to the fruitful crust.

Does the World address the lord of Olympos with mere words? Perhaps She might.

\- Khaire, Meilikhios. What is it that you wish to know now?

\- You are aware of my predicament.

\- So is Prometheus. He explained how to break the cycle already. What more do you need?

\- A non-temporary solution. Thetis is not the last one. My throne is not safe still.

\- It is not, – She agrees with indifference, like cold water dripping from stalactites, like tectonic plates slowly moving, like Typhoeus breathing.

\- Do you expect me to submit? – He demands, and the words are lightning flashes, a storm brewing in a tiny grotto, unreachable Olympos rising above all existence.

\- It does not matter.

\- What does, then?

\- Life. That which has a beginning will have an end, and all finality is pregnant with endless possibility, like a buried seed. This will never change.

\- Very well. But while I am strong – I shall meet any challenge and answer in kind. My enemies shall turn to ash. Have you not learned after the Gigantes?

\- This is not about me, grandchild. Stop searching for an enemy with a face and a name. Do you not know, that Ananke has a hundred of those – and none at all?

\- Therefore, however many times I avoid another woman with her prophesied whelp, sooner or later one capable of victory over me shall appear, born of my own seed. Still, later is better than sooner. The sea maiden has already been promised in marriage to a worthy mortal hero. Let his child, not mine, grow up mightier than his sire.

\- If that hero passes the nereid's test.

\- Should this one fail, another is bound to succeed. But you did not come to speak of this.

\- How insightful of you.

\- What is it, Grandmother?

\- Humans.

The words are a soft rustle. Humans. Grain-eating men and women. Numerous, stubborn, loud and resilient.

Now they murder a pig so that fresh blood may cleanse them of old guilt. Next, they dive right into new kinds of crime, believing at least temporary forgiveness can be so easily bought. Precious few rise above this cursed cycle.

\- What of them?

\- There are too many, Kronides. And they are too irresponsible. Their settlements grow without limit. When they cut down forests – they never stop until every healthy tree has been felled. When they hunt – their desire to kill is more evident than hunger. They murder, poison, burn – more and more, because their own numbers swell. And each single one wants, wants, wants. I am tired. Bearing such a burden is too much.

He considers. Whatever may be said of broad-breasted Gaia, proud and ruthless as a lioness, She can withstand much, and does not complain easily.

\- Do you desire their destruction, then? I came close to doing that once, but do not intend to repeat the exercise again.

To an Olympian gaze, Deukalion's flood seems all too recent. Why unleash more of the same so soon? Eventually, there may be no stones left to recreate humanity.

\- My wish is for mortals to become less numerous. Particularly the ones whose footsteps are the heaviest.

\- Heroes, then. This is possible. A war, or several – men of bronze hardly need any incentive for conflict. I shall do this, if Themis does not counsel otherwise.

She exhales, wrapping the shoulders of Her children - the mountains - in damp mist.

\- Thank you, Meilikhios. I wish there was no need to ask for this.

\- Do not resort to empty phrases. What must happen – shall.

Exhausted, Gaia heaves another sigh, and returns to Her troubled sleep.

Zeus the Thunderer briefly gazes at a dark-winged figure impatiently waiting for His orders on the edge of light and shadows, and gives a curt nod of consent.

She rises off the thin blade separating night and day, She spreads Her wings, and how piercingly rings Her voice above the world, leaving tiny cracks in heaven's crystal dome.

Bellicose Eris knows Her task, and takes to it all too readily.

War hangs in the air.


	3. Tei Kallistei

Peleus is not a coward, nor is he one to run from difficulties.

He had proven himself over and over - in that famed expedition to faraway Kolkhis, in the hunt for a monstrous boar sent by Artemis Herself to punish Kalydon.

Exile for accidental kinslaying, the cheating wife of Iolkos' hospitable ruler, her lies, venomous enough to sow bloody discord between former friends – Aiakides can weather many things, letting the tides of misfortune shatter against his shield.

Here is a man capable of facing a herd of wild kentauroi weaponless.

Yet, when old Nerus' daughter, silver-footed Thetis, was promised to him in marriage "on a single condition" – that was no joking matter.

Well known is the pride of untamed sea-maidens, who brook no dishonour. Dare to touch one without consent: a God will be rejected, a mortal faces righteous vengeance, chilling enough to be remembered for generations.

It matters not that Peleus himself had nothing to do with the arrangement, decided on Olympian heights. Pure Thetis, most dazzling among fifty sisters, was not born to a mortal wife's fate, and forgiveness comes no easier to her, than it does to the cold waves.

But she shall not deny the will of Zeus and His queen. Neither can the former Argonaut.

Not now, not once he has seen her emerging from her father's domain – lithe, skin like marble and jet-black hair – bathed in moonlight, sea foam licking bare feet like the most faithful of dogs.

Is there anything he would not do to touch her right now?

There must be, but not in the mortal world.

The other daughters of Nereus are following her, heading towards a grotto they frequent. Each one bearing flowers, rhyta full of wine, olive oil, barley.

Thetis gives the sign to stop.

Peleus approaches, taking no notice whatsoever when she - green-eyed, wearing one of those colourful Kretan skirts, so like and unlike any human girl - starts changing shape in his arms.

She transforms into wild beasts: now a lioness, now a snake. Into water, into flame – all this as easily, as Aiakides breathes.

Surrender, human. Stop. You are far too mortal, the current in your veins surges too fast, you shall never return to your fount, but rush down, and down, to scatter like a waterfall.

Surrender is unthinkable. Passion burns hotter than fire, a dream is no easier to seize than the sinuous current – but any manner of destruction is fair under Thetis' gaze.

A battle? Hardly. This is a test. Can this manling be worthy of a few years in an immortal life? Wave's touch, kisses that leave behind ashes, her predatory betaloned embrace?

Eventually the sea maiden decides he is worthy.

Meanwhile, Peleus, used to overcoming weakness and fear, is careless of what the price of the dream he never knew he had would be. There is no place for regret.

Separate eternity – center, below, above -

With a blade of flint: win the threefold throne,

Built on heights unreachable, axis of heaven bright,

Riding on salty waves in tumult, weathered and worn,

Deep beneath the earth, that abode of dejected shades;

Thus they drew their lots – Kroniones, that elder race:

Kingdoms, worthy of each, in a helmet, divided fates.

Blessed is this day on the slopes of shaggy Pelion, when Olympian greatness briefly touches a world subject to destructive Time.

Hephaistos gifts the speechless former Argonaut with wondrous armor, Poseidon brings tireless immortal horses, Kheiron the kentauros, most faithful of friends and mentors, offers a divinely blessed spear of mountain ash.

Khaire, Oikumene, rejoice – when can something like this happen again?

Fragrant wreaths, bliss of wine and nectar, no kylix runs dry. None other than the Queen of Heaven Herself carries the bridal torch for Her green-eyed ward.

Hear the sound of dazzling Paean's kithara, His song of how the world's tripartite division came to be, the Mousai and Kharites weaving their stately dance.

All are the most welcome of guests today, none a stranger at the celebration.

All, but not necessarily everyone.

Look, a golden apple rolling across one small table. Hard to guess, whether it is of true metal, or the glitter is false.

Ah, what a blessed day – for a Nereid's marriage to a hero has been sanctified by the presence of so many divinities, celestial and earthly, the fruit barely caught anyone's notice.

But catch it did.

A milk-white hand seizes the bright orb, large brown eyes examine it with curiosity, a smile touches thin lips.

Apparently, the apple carries an inscription.

\- "Tῃ καλλίστῃ " – to the fairest. Now, who would argue that is not I, the consort of Zeus.

\- I would, Boopis. – another lady intervenes, fair-haired, garments akin to silvery mist, golden jewelry slightly paler than those rich tresses. Only the embroidered belt holding this wondrous fabric beneath Her breasts is full of bright colour.

\- Neither shall I be silent. Does this not seem a worthy challenge for us?

So speaks a third one: tall, bright-eyed, no less familiar with the spear than with the distaff. Even Wisdom personified might not resist a game exciting enough.

Meanwhile, the wedding of Peleus and Thetis becomes subdued as the rustling grass, flows past the participants of this tiny immortal quarrel, wary of touching them.

Each Goddess is full of determination, none shall withdraw. What else is left, but to petition the father of Gods and men – may the Cloud-Gatherer judge, as is only proper!

But how can a choice be made? One is the Thunderer's queen and wife, another – His favored daughter and loyal right hand, yet another – mistress of passion itself. Whatever the decision – once shall He be correct, twice mistaken.

Thus Eris unfurls Her dark wings, casting shadows over this day, blessed and cursed at once.

Time flows differently for humans and those who reside on Olympos, thus it is not excessively difficult to convince the Goddesses to postpone their dispute lest they tarnish the celebration.

A month goes by. Another. A year. Five years. Ten. Has the matter been forgotten?

No such luck. The trio finally loses their patience, and they demand an answer.

So Zeus calls on Hermes, heaven's messenger, giving the order to locate a certain young shepherd on the slopes of Troad's mount Ida.

A clever fellow, and a connoisseur of feminine beauty if there ever was one. Additionally, he is accustomed to fair evaluations, as Ares Himself could attest.

Reportedly, when once the warrior God turned into a bull, and was victorious over the boy's favorite beast – that shepherd awarded the interloper with the triumphal garland without complaint. Why, then, not have this mortal decide between three Olympian beauties.

Can't be harder than bull fights.

This complicatedly uncomplicated rustic's name? Paris.

Coming face to face with four immortals in one day would have made anybody else speechless – either in reverence, or fear.

Not Paris, however. Barely an eyebrow raised.

He never misses a beat under the scrutiny of wing-footed Koinos.

As if nothing is out of the ordinary, as if such guests are to be expected here, amid bulls, sheep and goats.

What better chorus for a play as surreal as this one?

It is for the Gods Themselves to decide, when and where humanity should be reminded of Their presence. Only those entirely distant from the divine would be surprised to discover said presence more readily felt in a place of quiet reflection, than beneath palace roofs.

The evening is pleasant enough, cloaking the world in Phoenician purple, amber-hued light dancing merrily in a cold brook, and that new tune he came up with the other day is coming together splendidly – ah, does even Pan play the syrinx, all that remains of His beloved nymph, with such passion?

There is no reason for alarm. He is not the one asking for a favour right now.

Observe, boy. Consider. Appraise. Do not rush. Drink in the truly divine sight before you.

\- Comparing immortal beauty with more of the same is hard for one subject to decay. But since you command it, just give me time to deliberate. If it pleases my Lord and Ladies, will they kindly await my answer until daybreak?

His divine visitors have no objection. But how can they resist the urge to add some weight to their case, if each desires victory, and, perhaps more importantly, the boy's embarrassment?

Antheia speaks first, perfect plaits covered by a tall polos and the folds of a purple himation, embroidered with vibrant peacock feathers and an intricate golden web. Her sandals also glint with gold in the dusk.

\- Listen now, Paris, none of us is accustomed to defeat. Your task does indeed demand time for reflection. But do keep in mind: if you present the apple to me, as is appropriate, all of Asia can be yours. This shall come to pass.

An Olympian's word is ironclad. What was promised must happen, the country bumpkin shall sit on a throne, pass judgment, drink rich Mysian wine out of cunningly wrought gold, only letting go of his sceptre once old age takes hold of him.

Aside from that, the youth remembers another thing: the precious fruits growing far beyond the edge of the world, cared for by the Hesperides, which do lawfully belong to Hera as Her wedding gift from Grandmother Earth. What if this chilling treasure, smelling of mayhem in his palm, is one of those?

The other Lady – owl-eyed, high-browed, crowned with a golden helmet – can promise a fate no less worthwhile. Zeus' hard-hearted daughter does not bestow greatness – She teaches, guides, and woe betide those, who prove unworthy.

Confident is Her stride, fearsome to see, the Aigis woven of snakes wrapping Her broad shoulders, mighty as a trumpet Her voice.

\- Be aware, that power accidentally gained is lost with similar ease. Whereas I would instil you with wisdom and strength in peace and war – so rulers would beg for your guidance.

The shepherd bows in acknowledgement. What the Defender of Cities offers is worthy of the loftiest heroes, but, alas, Paris would make a paltry hero. He is not made of bronze.

Divine right. Wisdom. They have spoken already. Still, neither feels right.

She smiles – Aphrodite of the crystal voice, of dovelike gaze, hyacinths in Her hair, and that smile blossoms with the quiet self-assurance of a rose.

\- Do you happen to know, lord of herds, who is the fairest of women among your race?

\- No, Lady. Who might that be?

\- Helen of Lakedaimon, who queen Leda bore to High-Thundering Zeus.

He half-whispers, never looking away from the Goddess.

\- Mistress, does this Spartan beauty resemble You in the slightest?

There is no reply. He is given time until dawn as asked, the contenders are willing to wait. But, without a doubt, the cowherd's decision has already been made.

Kyllenios the messenger, His wide-brimmed hat securely shading the God's expression, sighs in disappointment. What thoroughly human predictability!


	4. The Games

If kings there can be among herdsmen – these two might certainly be called so.

The greybeards no longer look after cattle themselves, and the storied horses of the Troad have other caretakers, accustomed to looking down on the rest of the servants, yet a few old men resolve any dispute too trivial to merit the attention of royal officials.

Only rarely do they leave their settlement for long, masters of a tiny princedom accountable to the capital at the turn of each season, but a world unto itself otherwise.

Still, unrest is known even here, particularly in the wake of the spring Games.

Those are held to honor a long-dead princeling, not that things like that should matter after all this time.

\- Agelaos, are the rumors about your boy's intentions true? He wants to compete in the Games?

\- He does, Hyllos. And that boy is two palms taller than you already.

\- True enough, but that competition is no place for simple folk like us. You know the Priamidai will be present, and may the Gods help the child if he does something foolish!

Agelaos shrugs his broad shoulders. It would have been much more surprising to find the "boy" doing something intelligent, instead. Foolish stunts have always been the norm.

\- What you say is fair. But he is stubborn, and the victor of the games shall receive for a prize our best bull, the one Paris had been so proud of. The poor animal was taken recently for that very purpose. They will gild his horns, adorn him with garlands, you know the routine. Paris might be the only man in all of Troad who doesn't, and he wants his favorite plaything back no matter what.

\- Sounds like him alright. Well, let us hope Deiphobos can beat some sense into your son. You should have seen the prince last year, the way he won all the boxing matches!

\- We shall see how things go this time. Until later, my friend.

Agelaos heads straight for his home – eyes downcast, thoughts occupied with the coming games. Leaving the most wayward of wayward children unattended is hardly an option, now that…

Now that, one way or another, his son will leave the rich-wooled herds grazing on mount Ida's slopes, and the embrace of his lovely nymph Oinone, forever.

A certain sheet of cunningly embroidered linen will, naturally, travel with the old shepherd. Had he not kept it safe for so many years expecting and fearing just such an occasion? Now, if only his wife could understand that the time has come.

How can he take Paris from her?

When the young man, not without trouble, repeatedly overcomes the princes in the foot race, Agelaos is less than surprised.

Neither is he shocked by Deiphobos' jealous wrath, which forces the shepherds to take refuge at the Thunderer's altar, or by the inevitable unveiling of the truth behind the rustic boy's origin, which spilled as if from Epimeteus` foul pythos. That had all been unavoidable. Little remains hidden forever.

May crows take all the bulls in the world.

She wailed – Kassandra, the insane princess – and when her father ordered the woman led away from the altar, and the sacred axe taken from her hands, she resisted viciously, demanding her newfound brother be put to death immediately.

Deiphobos, for his part, obediently returned his dagger to its sheath, although it had been him who nearly succeeded in murdering Paris. The defeated prince managed to swallow his shame.

At least somebody deigns to listen to the king here. Ahh, family arguments.

\- Agelaos, why did you not tell the truth earlier?

\- How, my lord? I had been ordered to abandon the child in the mountains, and I did so, but nine days later I came back, and saw him alive, and the she-bear close by, and…

\- You could not condemn him to death a second time. Neither can I, herdsman.

\- I feared your wrath, my lord. That is why I kept quiet, and raised Paris as my son. Be merciful, for I meant no harm to anyone.

There is quite a bit of grey in Priam's once dark hair, and even more exhaustion in his eyes.

The queen, Hekabe, can barely hold back tears.

Neither wants to remember that old prophecy, neither notices the light of a burning torch dancing on the walls of proud Wilusa.

All they see is what they want to.

An embroidered swaddling cloth, untorn and clean. The queen's child, once wrapped in said swaddling cloth and abandoned in the wild, now grown into a handsome young man, a marvel to behold.

How can that not be considered a miracle, a joyful sign from the Gods, a blessing of mercy bestowed on windy Wilusa?

\- You saved him from my folly, and that is what matters. Neither Hekabe nor I expected to see our child amongst the living. Have I ever given reason to think me ungrateful?

\- No, you have not. But men are often compelled by the fire in their breast, not their better nature. May the immortals be my witnesses; no human is made of stone. So, can you forgive my disobedience? – and the tension in the old man's brittle voice slowly but surely gives way to tired resignation.

\- If you can forgive the decision I am about to make. Your young ward is a cowherd no more, but a prince, and henceforth, he shall live as one.

Priam understands all too well, what a punishment such a decision is for the loyal old man. Still, he can not do otherwise. Not now that he witnessed the impossible with his own eyes.

Deiphobos and his other sons might feel humiliated after what transpired at the Games. No matter, weeding out excessive pride will do them some good. They have no choice but to accept this rustic boy as their equal, however bitter the medicine may seem.

Yet the truly bitter fate is the one awaiting Agelaos and his wife, who have no children of their own.

\- What right do I have to begrudge your decision, even if I want to?

\- On that, we can agree.

The old servant merely bows. The years before him shall flow much more silently, than what he had gotten accustomed to, and those awaiting Paris are bound to be filled with color and clamor – much more so, than anyone can expect.

Aside from mad Kassandra, of course, but who ever listened to her?

Not knowing the future is hard. Knowing and being unable to change it – still harder.

Worst of all, is knowing the inevitable, knowing you could change it, yet taking the wrong path anyway, because the right one is not meant for feeble human hearts.


	5. Of Lions And Sheep

Meeting family you never knew you had is a comical thing. Particularly when one had been hearing of said family for seventeen years – the House of Laomedon, rulers of the whole realm.

Well, Paris had seen stranger things in his life. Human beings hate the unknown, but, once the encounter is inevitable, accustom themselves to it with remarkable speed.

Here, for one, is Priam himself. Perhaps Paris should learn to call him father. He rules Wilusa of the wide streets, and most of the Troad by proxy.

Experienced, calculating, barely younger than wrinkled Agelaos. A man used to considering his options carefully, but, once a decision is made, it is as good as carved on solid rock.

There had been another name. Podarkes, king Laomedon's son, once ransomed out of slavery by his elder sister Hesione. Herakles the Akhaian indulged his friend Telamon's new captive woman for no greater price than her cunningly adorned veil.

The raiders left, bronze and fire fell silent for a time, and the Troad's sole remaining lawful heir became known as Priam, he who has been ransomed.

Little joy did Laomedon's hubris bring to his kin and subjects, for it was his refusal to repay Alkeides for saving his daughter from a sea monster that prompted the attack in the first place. Worse yet, even the Olympians themselves the old king refused to thank properly, so a half-mortal's ire must have seemed a trifle compared to that of black-maned Poseidon.

Hekabe, his chief, lawful wife and queen. She presides over the rites of the Sun Goddess, and of concealed Lelwani. Hers to negotiate are the marriages of princes and princesses; hers is the trust of Hatti's great tawananna.

The day she met her child, Hekabe embraced him in public, and kissed his brow. Now, she is back to her icy self.

Few are those who can approach her easily. Now the lady is taking part in a ceremony, now she desires solitude, another time – busy in her weaving room. However, the old woman took that cloth Paris had been wrapped in as a babe, and treats it as if it were something precious. Kreusa is convinced this is normal.

Kreusa herself. The eldest daughter after Ilione – but that lady lives with her husband, a Thrakian chieftain. Kreusa is knowledgeable, never confused about who is sovereign of which place, which lands are disputed at the moment, and the like. Her patron divinity is the golden Alashiyan Lady, which Paris, naturally enough, approves of.

Same goes for the woman's betrothed, Aineias. How can the dardanian not honor the foam-born Goddess, if it is She who gave birth to him?

This may well be the sole reason for pride in this poor sod's case. He is barely older than Paris, a capable but not exceptional fighter, loves his father, whom the touch of an immortal had left a dry husk of his former self.

The heir of Ankhises might well be an example of mediocrity so perfect it almost became remarkable.

Hektor, now, is a different matter. Everything a prince and heir to the throne should be, and a bit more besides. A skilled warrior, despite the recent comparative peace in the Troad proper.

He has become reluctant to involve himself in dangerous missions since Andromakhe of Hypoplakian Thebes was betrothed to him. Cowardice? Hardly. Stupid maturity, rather, attended by responsibility and boredom. Yawn.

The heir is, thankfully, patient and understanding around the former cowherd.

Deiphobos, alas, is anything but. Predator first, civilized human being a distant second. He is brave enough, capable enough – but has little taste for being second, even to Hektor the perfect. Forget accepting the fact he actually comes third, and a country bumpkin of all people outranks him.

Ahh, what is that Ida-raised bumpkin to do with such a bothersome man?

Laodike. Hair like honey. She loves nothing more than her pair of thunder-hoofed horses with coats as amber as her own mane.

Let fools mutter how unwomanly driving a chariot on her own is, the princess will only laugh. Highborn Trojans have this skill in their blood, and even Deiphobos on his ferocious dappled team rarely outraces her.

They challenge each other privately, always away from unwelcome observers. Proud as she is, Laodike is not free to show her skill in the sacred races.

A shame, really, considering the undeniable fact that among all the famous horse-tamers of the Troad, only the aforementioned predatory prince and Hektor can equal this woman in, well, taming horses.

Something about this daughter of Priam keeps reminding Paris of Oinone, with her locks always unbound, even though in the nymph's case they are deliciously dark.

Young Polyxene, for her part, constantly gets sick in carriages. She also happens to be frustratingly literate. Which would have been surprising enough in itself for her age, but, unsatisfied with only her native language, Polyxene decided to learn more. While Paris can barely recognize his own name in writing, the girl reads nesite and luwian with equal ease. Now, Helenos has been promising to teach her Ashur's tongue, and the girl can hardly wait to begin.

Helenos would have little trouble teaching the language of Kemet, either. He had spent about half a decade in a scribe school overseas. Sun God's priest, knows a thousand things useful and useless. Never in a haste, never a spark in his eye. Might as well be sleepwalking through life.

There is also, of course, insane Kassandra (curse her and her poisonous mouth), little Troilos, never too far from Hektor and Laodike, even smaller Polydoros – a late child, all the more beloved by his parents.

A few advisors from Wilusa's foremost families should never be overlooked, either: Antenor, Polydamas - too clever for his own good, wily Antimakhos…

Somewhere in faraway lands exists patchwork Akhaia. Alashiya, rich in trade. Ancient Bab-Ilu, the Two Lands – even more ancient, eternal and unchanging - far to the south. The North is home to warlike Thrakians. There is also iron Hatti, of course, with the mighty labarna Muwatalli and his tawananna, who addresses Hekabe as her younger sister in her letters.

Nobody ever cares how much simpler the former herdsman's life had been before, on the slopes of ancient Ida, with Agelaos and his old woman at his side, demanding Oinone of the silver laughter always close buy, her thighs shapely and strong like a doe's.

He wonders, not entirely idly, what Helen's laughter might sound like. It has to be golden, he would bet. Testing that theory at last seems all too tempting.

\- What are you reading about, sunshine?

\- Hatti, sunset.

\- Very well, o little sister of mine, if you wish our conversation to be conducted in a lofty manner, so be it. What arcane mysteries does this vast store of knowledge in your possession illuminate in regards to the empire of Hatti, wise daughter of Priam?

\- What exactly has you so curious? History?

\- Partly. The more recent kind. But mostly current affairs. Some say, the labarna would have liked to receive more than what we have been giving him. Formal allegiance, perhaps.

\- You would do better to ask mother and father. For some reason, after Herakles invaded, the Hittites allowed us to get back on our feet, although a more perfect moment for destroying the Troad's independence could hardly have been imagined. These days, Priam accepts the might of Hatti's Sun and a certain amount of outside control as inevitable, unlike earlier.

\- Yes, people talk a great deal of the exploits of our father's youth. It is natural for old men to drift towards peace, while the new generation finds the strength to fight in their stead.

\- The king's peaceful inclinations are the bedrock, on which Wilusa's prosperity stands, Paris. The labarna Muwatalli clashed with Kemet's ruler some time ago, and, if you don't trust me – ask Hektor, how formidable Hatti's chariots are, how sharp their iron.

Priam's heir had been part of that campaign – the last time he left the Troad. Not because any agreements with the iron men demanded it, not due to a lack of young warlike nobles desperate for glory and the Sun's approval, but, rather, because of unspoken expectations that endlessly follow spoken ones like the bakkhai trail their God's footsteps.

He distinguished himself more than any other young noble in the labarna's army, earned Hattusili's respect – Muwatalli's brother is a wise man indeed – and never spoke of the battle.

Neither distinction abroad nor a hero's welcome at home gave him joy. Instead, he prayed that the sun God avert any more wars from Wilusa, while Hatti and Kemet reach an accord.

Paris shakes his head. So many predators seeking likely prey. But is protecting the flock from wolves and lions not every herdsman's trade?

\- So, the rumor that every Hittite infantryman has iron weapons is not just a rumor?

\- Now, that would have been a sight to behold. But no, that is not true, and what iron they do have is not always of the highest quality. But still, a lion is a lion even without wings or a pelt that cannot be pierced. Priam himself admits he was wrong to antagonize Hatti. This is not a power that can be challenged lightly.

\- Naturally enough, the heir to the throne agrees.

\- Hektor knows all too well the measure of independence we can realistically hold on to.

\- With that in mind, would throwing our lot in with Hatti not be a better option? Why strive to keep a hundred masters happy without fully satisfying either of them, if you can have certainty instead? Allies are allies, enemies are enemies, and he who threatens Wilusa would have the iron army to contend with. That is no small matter.

Polyxena stops copying some unbelievably tiny cuneiform text onto a wooden tablet covered with wax, puts her tools away, shrugs discontentedly.

\- Even limited freedom and dignity are better than none at all, Paris. Besides, our current position is perfect for trade, why jeopardize that?

\- It always comes down to trade with you people.

\- Why not? Imagine this: textiles, copper, pottery, perfumes, olives and their oil, timber, finished works of all kinds of craftsmen – all this passes through Helle's Sea! And, obviously enough, bit by bit all those things enrich the city that controls the trade routes.

\- Sooner or later, a man will appear who will decide that the Troad is a bit too rich, and ripe for the picking. This has happened before. Where Alkeides succeeded…

\- Others may well follow him, yes. Particularly from among warlike Ahhiyawans. Not out of the question. But the one you speak of was an exception to so many rules, while today his countrymen… well, they know little of siege warfare, what would they do about our walls, built by the Gods themselves? Additionally, shortly before your… arrival, guess who was the king's guest? Menelaos, brother to Mykene's wanax. For his part, he rules Sparta, which was suffering from a plague at that time. Menelaos received an oracle, ordering him to build temples and altars in Wilusa, and our father purified the guest with blood and flame. Fire from the Sun God's main temple traveled to Lakedaimon, and all the household fires of the land were lit from that one torch. Quickly enough, the plague stopped. There is little to no reason for us to be wary of Ahhiyawa right now.

\- So, the Akhaians are not a threat. Why, then, do men speak of them as if they were?

\- Because they are. Potentially. If they are ever able to cooperate for more than a few days. Even Attarisias-Atreus could not achieve that – and the man had tried hard. Alas for them, what matters for Mykene is irrelevant to Pylos, whereas Knossian sailors might find it an obstacle. The current high wanax does have broad influence, mind you, and allies among his fellow chiefs, too. But that is not necessarily enough. As far as I am aware, nobody is in any haste to know what would happen should Mykene successfully force or convince her unruly neighbors to collaborate for once.

\- I would wager the worst they could do is more pirate attacks along the Asian coast, the islands, some ships intercepted at sea. You just dismissed them as a threat yourself.

\- There is more than one answer to most questions, Paris. Not all things are simple. Give those half-barbarians a goal, a cause that can bind them together – and they might surprise us all and do what your kin once did in Kemet.

\- My kin? - The Hyksos people, about as sane as you are.

\- You and your jokes. Forget it, those Akhaians will gut each other after one tiny victory, over glory and plunder. Why fear men who kill each other because of a single helmet?

\- If you say so. Can we stop this conversation now, please? No reason to invite misfortune.

A quick sign to ward off the evil eye. Silence.

Meanwhile, Paris merely smiles. Intelligent as the princess may be, she is still no more than a girl. He might have been a herdsman until recently, but his understanding of the world is still better than hers. After all, the empire of Hatti is so very close, while the wanaktoi and baseleis across the Great Green have a hard time keeping their own people in line. What are you before the mighty East, Ahhiyawa?


	6. Diplomacy

Paris was little surprised to receive the king's summons. Surely, an acknowledged prince would not be kept on a leash indefinitely, but allowed to do something worthwhile eventually.

As for the task itself – it turned out to involve an embassy to Sparta. The place Menelaos rules. The very same Sparta his Helen is queen of.

This was not unexpected, either. The brilliant Goddess of Alashiya did promise a gift for that apple, after all, and why would she abandon Her devoted cowherd?

Priam desires to improve relations with one of Ahhiyawa's most influential leaders. After the Lakedaimonian basileus' comparatively recent visit, it would not be out of place for the Troad to answer in kind. Highborn visitors, gifts as appropriate – the usual.

Xenia, the sacred law of hospitality, the foundation of trust between guest and host, is, thankfully, adhered to both here and in Akhaia. Not a bad opportunity to observe what Paris is capable of without risking too much.

So, the recently resurrected prince will be the one to befriend Menelaos.

Priam did not invite his child for an audience in the palace, nor even within the city walls. They drove a chariot to a nearby meadow, and with the lush vista spread before his eyes, the young man could well forget the very existence of Wilusa's tall fortifications or Ida's thick woods.

What if the only place that is real is this – dark-green hills, the smell of grass, horse herds with meticulously trimmed rich manes?

Bays, chestnuts, blacks, duns, roans, dappled greys. Powerful older stallions, unruly young ones, swift-footed mares, mothers with defenseless foals. Some are relaxing, others running, grazing or drinking from a spring.

There is some kind of quarrel between a chestnut stallion and a piebald, possibly the very same Hektor plans on training for his chariot. Both are full of fire and brimstone, with hooves heavy enough to trample bones in a flash. The smoke coming out of each animal's nostrils might put some volcanoes to shame.

Paris' father spares not a glance for the young man. He seems completely taken – and satisfied - with the pastures and the horses.

\- Tell me, child, do you know what kind of gossip has been filling Wilusa these months?

\- Polyxene has recently taken an interest in the empire of Hatti, Antenor sent a slave with some texts she is now utterly immersed in. You know, Anittas, Hattusili, all the others…

\- I am not speaking of the citadel, but of the lower city. Although, the Pergamum has no shortage of those who agree with the common folk, either. You have not been paying attention.

\- To what?

\- The light of the torch. When my queen was pregnant with you, she suffered nightmares. The child she was to give birth to would become the flame of destruction for our tall capital, perhaps for the whole Troad. My and Arisbe's eldest son, Aisakos, still lived then. A blessedchild, he could hear the Gods, like Kassandra used to, and Helenos still does. Aisakos confirmed the dream as true. That is why Agelaos was ordered to abandon you to die. While the people… they learned of this somehow. And they still remember.

The young man arches a thin eyebrow disdainfully. Arisbe had given her husband a strange son indeed, who died under circumstances befitting a shepherd's fate, rather than that of a prince, overtaken with grief after his nymph lover died. Never would Paris be as pathetic as that.

What reason is there to trust him, and a pregnant woman's delusions?

\- So, now they want to finish what wolves and bears did not.

\- Almost. Your voyage to Lakedaimon should give them enough time to quiet down. I promise to do what is in my power as well, with Hekabe's help. Make use of the foreign chieftain's hospitality: although not particularly powerful himself, Menelaos enjoys great influence for a number of reasons. Such friends are useful. Hopefully, you shall return to find a peaceful home, and be accepted without fear or disdain.

\- Hopefully. But what makes this Akhaia so fearsome, why do you value potential allies overseas so much? In Hattusa, there is a single lion ruling over all the beasts. But the barbarians will settle for nothing less than being lions themselves, every single one of the idiots. They are not much of a threat to others if they are their own worst enemies.

\- Are you about to utter such nonsense in Sparta?

\- No, my lord.

\- Good. Remember yourself. You sail in a ten-day. I have already arranged for proper gifts. Should Antenor help you with learning the Akhaian tongue?

Before the prince could reply, a tiny hurricane nearly swept him off his feet.

The disaster consisted of a young boy riding a black mare, followed by Laodike. The latter did not consider stopping the child and steed urgent business, more interested in the grey dappled horse she was leading, freshly bathed and groomed.

\- Daughter, this is no joking matter. Stop encouraging his antics. I wonder what would be the worse outcome: Troilos falling from the horse, or growing up to be a Thrakian.

The girl's grin merely grows wider at this, warm brown eyes sparkling with mischief.

\- He is more likely to grow up to be an Amazon, father. Unlike Thrakian warriors, those do not use chariots at all. But enough worrying, the rascal will, in fact, mature eventually. And by that time he will already be used to dealing with horses. Troilos is already halfway there, even if Frost here still doesn't like him much.

\- Frost dislikes every human being in existence, aside from you. But enough of this japery. Did you take care of the gift meant for Lakedaimon's ruler?

\- Of course I did. Would you like to see?

Without waiting for the answer, the princess calls for the stable hands.

Those appear quickly enough, leading a pair of stunning steeds – reddish-gold coats, like the sun itself, dark eyes, rich manes, impatient, youthful stride.

Both have been gelded, however. No reason to give fertile stallions of the famous Dardanian breed to a petty kingling from Ahhiyawa.

Paris shrugs. Losing such beautiful creatures might be disappointing, but, considering the number of horses in the royal herds, salvageable. But Laodike's smile vanishes completely, while she strokes the animals' necks. Who will care for them so gently far across the sea?

One of the red equines, heedless of human concerns, takes a wild apple from the young woman's extended hand. Whatever voyage lies ahead, there is no reason to miss out on a treat.

Naturally enough, Paris is not allowed to travel on his own. Aineias, while officially merely a companion who does not head the embassy, is still somewhat older, and, therefore, tasked with preventing his inexperienced kinsman from dishonoring the house of Laomedon.

The dardanian would do well to mind his own business. Both the ships are manned by simple folk, far more likely to obey the orders of Priam's child, however outrageous, than those of a man who barely shows his face in Wilusa.

Granted, he still is related to the royal line. Ancient Dardanos had a grandson – Tros, whose children were Ilos – Laomedon`s father, and Asarak – great-grandfather to Aineias. But such a flimsy lineage, and his own lack of notable deeds, prevented the would-be minder from becoming a threat to Paris' enjoyment of the expedition.

The younger man is, therefore, in high spirits, content with life and sure of himself. Even Aphrodite's offspring, quiet and pliable for the time being, is not entirely irritating. As for a certain prophet... whatever portents of doom Helenos had suddenly seen, the he can join Kassandra and poor dead Aisakos in their merry chorus. The former herdsman would be damned should he allow doomsayers to sully his mood.

Shoo, you crows.

The day of arrival is festive enough to put wreaths on the heads of the whole crew.

Menelaos Atreides turns out to be an excellent host. He receives the highborn Asians with grace, exchanges some witticisms with Aineias, who has been an acquaintance since well before the plague. The child of Priam, for his part, is forced to endure a whole barrage of questions, all to avoid discussing his uncanny birth, presumed death and return.

The fair-haired akhaian manages to steer clear of that particular topic in public, until he is finally left alone with the guests. But first, he gives orders to the slaves, admires the gift horses without even noticing they are geldings, strokes their velvet foreheads, promises the Trojans a hunt on the reedy banks of Eurotas.

That last one hardly sounds pleasant. How much excitement can a mediocre river in a backwards land provide?

At last, the embassy is offered food, wine, lodging, time for rest and opportunity for much-needed bathing. Ahh, bliss!

There are some interesting tales surrounding this basileus. Son to Pelopides Atreus, brother to Agamemnon, Mykene's high king – on good terms with the latter, too. Which is not a given, considering the family history.

Old Tyndareos, Helen's mortal father, relinquished the scepter soon after his not-daughter's marriage. Kastor and Polydeukes, the young queen's elder brothers, are still a power to be wary of, but conveniently absent for the time being.

Now, Atreus. What a man. Clashed with his own brother for rulership in Mykene – and, well, until one of them died, there was no rest. Not enough place in all of Akhaia for those two. What began with simple deception involving a seduced wife and a stolen golden lamb that represented kingship, eventually escalated into Atreus feeding Thyestes the latter's own children – a crime even Helios refused to witness.

Appetizing, no?

Thyestes, not to be outdone, raped his own daughter to beget a cursed, wretched child, who was unknowingly raised by Atreus – and killed the man in the end.

Such wholesome pastimes, cannibalism in particular, are a family tradition, it appears. Going back to Tantalos, an Arzawan king, father to Pelops, and grandfather to the two insane siblings. He had thought it a fine idea to kill his child and offer the flesh to the Gods.

In return, the idiot's punishment in the afterlife is particularly inventive, and not likely to end any time soon.

Pelops was returned to life no worse for the wear, bar his shoulder, devoured accidentally by Demeter, who had been in no shape to pay attention to anything after Her own daughter's disappearance.

The boy became an adult in due time, attracted the Earthshaker's affection, grew restless.

Eventually, he found himself on what is now called the Isle of Pelops – despite being merely a peninsula.

Waves crashing against the shore, a bride of surpassing fairness at his side in a wondrous chariot.

So what, if he caused the death of Hippodameia's father to win her hand? So what, if the curses of the man's charioteer, Myrtilos, who had helped in the deed and was killed for his trouble, still hounded Pelops and would hound his descendants?

It did not take long for said descendants, under King Eurystheus' wing, to become a formidable force in Akhaia – scepters and palaces were their lot, not a foreigner's usual obscurity.

Paris smirks. It is natural for Tantalos' civilized blood to reign over barbarians. Additionally – does the name Myrtilos not resemble Mursili, a name Hittite nobles frequently bear?

When questioned, Menelaos merely shrugs. Of that time, he knows no more than his compatriots, and the Pelopidai, if they knew a whit more, never told. After Thyestes was taken by either disease or the Erynies, none remains who could separate truth from falsehood.

Which is just as well: why allow the past to eclipse the present? It was not interest in foreign lineages that brought the Trojan envoys to Sparta.

The evening feast is – o happy stars! – graced with Helen's presence. She plays a few tunes on a kemetan harp, welcomes the guests with sweet words, busies herself with the servants, who hardly need the supervision – and, finally, the lady vanishes from the megaron, but remains firmly present in the cowherd's imagination.

He keeps picturing what he hungers for: the naked alabaster shoulders he never saw, a playful glance softened by long eyelashes, the taste of her kisses. What does the dark-blue veil, covered with golden doves, conceal? What is the smell of her fair hair like? Are her fingers, so skillful with harp strings, just as clever in more intimate endeavors?

Paris needs to slip into the women's quarter. Desperately. But on what pretense? Would, say, acting like he is curious to see Hermione, the royal couple's daughter, work?

A bad joke, if there ever was one. Who would want to see a two-year old, aside from her nannies? Besides, the tiny nuisance is noisy enough to be heard throughout the whole palace.

For some reason, knowing that the queen is mother to another man's offspring already, and that offspring is just as fat and satyr-loud as so many other children, does not make Helen less desirable.

The prince idly wonders, when exactly he forgot his nymph's name, which used to tinkle with her silver laughter.

No matter, that one is but a footprint in the sand.

Paris pretends to be a regular bumpkin (which is shamefully simple), curious about everything he sees (that part is much tougher). In a few days, he is a familiar sight all around the palace.

Slipping into the part of the garden meant for women is almost a joke. Finally meeting the daughter of Zeus alone… is no joke at all.

What is he to say? For once, the young man is glad to have learned the basics of Ahhiyawa's crow-like tongue, with some help from Antenor and Aineias.

Never taking his gaze off hers, which is the height of impropriety in any land he has heard of, reveling in the clear blue color so similar to the sky, Paris asks the most ridiculous question, as if it were oikumene's greatest mystery.

\- My queen, they say you are no human woman, but a swan who pretends to be one, born from a golden egg. Is that true?


	7. Dry grass catching fire

On his arrival to Knossos, a shadow of what used to be Krete's foremost city, Menelaos has little time to waste. Everything has been prepared for his – and Agamemnon's – grandfather's funeral rites, and the two Atreidai are required to attend those in proper solemnity.

The old king – Katreus – did not pass away peacefully. To die by his own son's hand… what an unhappy man.

Agamemnon and Menelaos had no choice, but to abandon all and hasten to the island of Minos. The dead do not wait – particularly not in this summer heat. Not to mention, the body had to be transported all the way from Rhodos, where Katreus met his end.

\- What an abysmal favour Althaimenes did me. His old man had never been particularly ambitious, neither is Deukalion, but Deukalion is likely to pass the throne to our dear friend Idomeneus, and you know how that old fox thinks. Might well decide to remind us all about Krete's ancient mastery of the sea, now that most of the power here is within his grasp.

\- You say mastery, I say history. The thalassocracy of Minos is in the past. But khaire, Agamemnon, am I glad to see you, despite the unfortunate circumstances. You never change.

\- Oh, forgive my nonexistent manners. How have you been, brother? I hear Sparta is finally recovering from that plague.

\- All true, thank Paian. The oracle's words were interpreted correctly. These days, it's my turn to entertain Trojan guests. Aineias brought someone very curious.

\- Wait a moment, is there trouble in the Troad now?

\- No, they just want to improve relations. But not badly enough to offer unrestrained passage through the Hellespontos for our trade ships. That is still out of the question.

\- Sounds like Priam alright. Friends are not exempt from being fleeced.

Menelaos nods, but there is little that can be done about the matter. Why linger?

\- Have you heard of their recently discovered prince? He's the one heading the embassy.

\- I have, but he doesn't appear to be a cause for concern. The city dislikes him quite a bit, while Hektor is as well loved as ever.

\- True, this Paris is nothing to worry about. But the story still sounds eerily familiar. Abandoned in the wilds, saved and raised unaware of his ancestry. Now, Dardanides and Hekabe suddenly forget why they disposed of him in the first place, and accept him back.

\- Well, why had they, then?

\- The queen had a bad dream, foretelling disaster.

\- Is this the second coming of Oidipous, or something? This story reeks.

\- Like Python himself, but that is Wilusa's concern, not ours.

With that, both the Atreidai make a sign to ward off misfortune, the Spartan ruler additionally touching his clay amulet.

Terrible time to be discussing sinister oracles. It feels as though something grey and heavy flew through Krete's clear air. One of the priests, who had no way of hearing the royal conversation, shuddered all of a sudden. Gods be gracious, why?

The elder brother binds his black hair securely, washes his hands, prepares to perform his part of the rite. There is a whole troupe of female mourners, of course – few of them related to the deceased. Once they are done, it is time for the sacrifice. Black sheep, two black bulls. Barley, salt, a libation of unmixed wine, blodbloodblood…

All of this – in the shadow of the horns of consecration, which belong to that great Bull, Who shakes the earth and rouses the sea. The shadow is long, far too long, allowing for no escape.

The sons of faithless Aerope barely remember the daughter of Katreus. The old man himself had been little more than a stranger. Why, then, are their ears still full of shrill wailing well after the women fell silent, why can their eyes see nothing but grey and red?

According to those in the know, Althaimenes lost his mind once it became apparent who he killed. Threw himself into a chasm.

Knowing that his father was doomed to die by his own progeny's hand, the man had desperately tried to escape fate. Ended up on Rhodos. But Katreus – he decided to search for his disappeared heir.

A splendid success. Some idiot mistook his ships for those of pirates, which had the islanders armed and ready to fight sooner, than one can say "Helios". Althaimenes, naturally, was part of that force.

Oidipous, you wretched ancient shade, disappear at last. Is your fate bound to repeat itself?

The sacrificial dagger is satiated. There is red everywhere. The world belongs to the living once again. But is there much of a difference between a black bull and a white one, is the sheep's fate any kinder if, once killed, it is eaten instead of burned completely?

Nobody asks. It is the lot of cattle to die in silence.

She can not keep silent anymore. Paris is waiting for – demanding – an answer. But what can Helen say to him?

Here, on the reedy banks of Eurotas, is her whole life. Friends she has known since childhood, the old willow tree that offered solitude and comfort when humans could not, the hunting forays with Polydeukes and Kastor she still misses so much. Here is tiny Hermione. Menelaos, who never once dishonored her, always stood by her. So many reasons to remain. Only one reason to leave.

This fire inside, golden Aphrodite's suffocating will.

The queen's fingers linger on a column painted red and black. On a thronos-chair, decorated with ivory plaques depicting griffins. She finds it barely possible to breathe.

Some highborn hunter is aiming a bow from his chariot. The lion he is about to shoot seems unsure, whether to run for dear life, or turn back and leap at the attacker, tearing out his throat. This is just a useless painting on the wall, but…

Kastor's favorite painting. He had invented a name and backstory for the hunter, and, when his sisters were little, of course they heard quite a bit of this remarkable fresco's exploits.

The son of Priam prepares for departure with a smile, as if Helen's decision were already made. Does he think he knows her better, than she does herself? Is he correct?

The swan-begotten woman has a daughter. She has a mother, and an earthly father, too. Siblings – the Dioskouroi and Klytaimnestra. Then, there is her siser's husband. The wanax of Mykene. That one sees far, and weaves a complicated web indeed, extensive enough to cover the island of Pelops and more.

Agamemnon, the shepherd of men, is ruthless. Menelaos is hardly forgiving, either. If those two desire vengeance – all of windy Troad shall learn fear.

There is more, of course. Stronger than the web of Mykene, than Akhaia's readiness to answer warlike Enyo's call whenever it is raised, more insidious, than the guest's planned crime against his host. Ananke's heady brew does not lack for spice even more poisonous.

The oath of the suitors, may it burn the tongues that took it.

She remembers them all. The two Aiantes with their inappropriate jokes – Telamonides and Oilides, inseparable and so dissimilar, with Teukros the bowman always nearby, if not always glad to be a part of some new insanity. Diomedes – all too sane and mature for his age. Patroklos' effortless charm. The double-sided labrys axe an attendant carried after Idomeneus anywhere the Minotaur's nephew went. Glib Palamedes, only ever distracted from a new and exciting idea by a fresher one, never by human voice. Tlepolemos – child of great Herakles himself. Sthenelos, so quick to anger, quicker yet to calm down. Protesilaos of Phylake, cocky and competitive. And so many more.

Of high birth, every last one of them. There was power behind each of the princes, even if it is not equal. And they all wanted the swan-born maiden, for one reason or another.

Heroes, oh, heroes. Well-born, well-armed. Who knows, which feast or friendly competition will end with Ares arriving for a visit, entourage in tow.

Odysseus of Ithake had been one of the suitors, although he had little hope for success, being heir to a few unimportant islands and lacking deeds to boast of. Therefore, he decided to be content with a duck in the pond, while the swan in the sky escaped his snares only to find herself caught in those of another suitor.

Tyndareos, cornered by the pack of predators who called themselves Helen's suitors, was desperate for a way out. The ithakan offered him one, only asking for a bride of his own in exchange. Helen's cousin, daughter of Ikarios, Penelope by name. Who would have refused?

The plan had seemed perfection itself. All those who competed for the swan-begotten maiden's hand, took an oath, sealed by the blood of a sacrificed horse. Whoever the daughter of Zeus chose, the others would never seek revenge for their defeat. Moreover, they would defend his and Helen's honour, if needed.

A shared sacrifice, blood staining every man's hands – may heaven know, may Tartaros hear. May he who breaks the oath know no respite or release.

"Whoever she chooses". This had not been difficult to accept. Many were assured of their victory, the rest were simply sick of waiting for any decision at all. It is not the custom of heroes to be patient. Each of them may as well have a wildfire behind his back, driving him on without respite.

She chose Menelaos – for many reasons, and never had any grounds to regret the decision. But now, that oath of forty suitors resounds again, filling the megaron with the voice of trumpets.

The noblemen of Akhaia do not forget easily, particularly not when War raises its voice. They do not take kindly to being made into fools, nor to losing what is theirs. Even less kindly they take to violations of the sacred law of hospitality.

Is it not the Gods who protect this holy custom? Has the Alashiyan Goddess not taken Helen by the hand, leading away to distant Wilusa? Then, it is for Her to look after those consumed by Her flame.

Hermione is sleeping so sweetly. Good, it should be easier to abandon her this way. But she shall take some of the handmaidens with her. Devoted Klymene, and the mother of Theseus, Aifra. Since Kastor and Polydeukes captured her while the great Athenian was accompanying his friend Peirithoos on his foray to the Underworld, the old woman has been Helen's attendant.

Fair is fair – Theseus had stolen Helen, after all, and Peirithoos had expected to steal Persephone Herself for his wife.

Only the Athenian ruler returned, whereas his friend remained, but even the former did not linger for long. Now that he is gone – who can Aifra turn to?

Trojans shall take the Spartan queen's dowry to the ships. She shall follow. No more excuses, no more lin-lin-lingering. All will be well.

In her way to the ships, the swan-begotten maiden does not look back on her former palace even once. Perhaps, she has a wildfire of her own, trailing her footsteps, leaving nothing but ashes.

There are two riders on silver horses rushing through the night, ghost-like and silent. Each one accompanied by a young woman holding on for dear life, afraid that the mad gallop has become eternal. It might well have.

The wind's roar resembles that of a wildfire.

The Dioskouroi, descendants of Zeus - although one of them happens to be Tyndareos' mortal child. This would have been more remarkable had the same thing not happened with Iphikles and Herakles, who were twins as well, one born of the Thunderer, the other to a human's fate. Such things simply happen. Questioning merely leads to more confusion.

They never grew up, those two. More than thirty years had not been enough. But, throughout all that time, they have been inseparable no matter what, a single spirit inhabiting two bodies.

Even now, the siblings just would not leave alone two dark-eyed maidens, daughters of Leukippos. Accustomed to having what they wanted, they took Hilaeira and Phoibe by force. But, while the girls' opinion and that of their weak father could easily be ignored, the Leukippidai were not without protectors. Their intended husbands, Idas and Lynkeus, were not ones to stand idly by when offended. Stubborn little…

The sons of Aphareus are, ridiculously enough, also twins. They used to be on amiable terms with the Dioskouroi, a merry little pack of troublemakers. But… that is in the past.

It had not taken long for Lynkeus and Idas to realize what happened. They promptly stopped searching for their cattle, which had earlier been stolen by the spartans as a distraction. Instead, the Apharetidai hastened after the thieves, deprived of a much more valuable prize.

Lynkeus has always boasted of his uncanny eyesight – with good reason. Avoiding his notice for much longer is a vain hope. Besides, neither the humans nor the horses can go without rest.

The Messenian lands are close enough to those of Lakedaimon, but none of the rivals are in any haste to get there. The Apharetidai are well aware, that, once in Sparta, their brides will be lost to them once and for all. The other pair of twins, for their part, would have cheated themselves out of a victory, if they never faced their enemy in proper battle.

Therefore, Kastor and Polydeukes eventually decide they are done playing games. They stop their stallions, and await their pursuers.

Meanwhile, the exhausted girls huddle beneath an oak tree, rough bark and leaves their refuge, each other's embrace their shield. Flimsy? Yes, but for the moment the warmth of a sister's hands is the only reality in the world for each of them. Neither could so much as think of letting go.

Later, when the daughters of Leukippos leave this accursed place in silence, heading towards the nearest settlement, there shall be no one left to spare them so much as a glance.

The descendants of Aphareus waste little time in finding the four. Not even enough to seek out a herm and thank the God of Kyllene for not letting the thieves escape. Although, perhaps, considering His predilections, Hermes may well have more sympathy for the daring criminals, than for their victims. One can never tell for sure with Him.

The men tie their horses to different branches of a single tree, like they used to in the past. It's not like the animals have any reason to quarrel, no matter what happens between humans.

Then – it begins. Bronze meets bronze, determination clashes with determination.

Idas charges at Kastor, but to little effect – not even a hair is cut. A step back. A thrust. Another one – anger barely contained. None of them is wearing any armour – which would have been dead weight in any case.

Kastor tries to trip his opponent – only to find himself on the defensive again. Time for the shield to do its job.

Polydeukes, meanwhile, has lost his long-shadowed spear. Has to make do with a short sword – which, admittedly, is one of his favorite weapons. Close combat is best. The son of Zeus knows how to turn an enemy's superior reach against him. Besides, Lynkeus is wounded already.

Closer, closer, a snow leopard moving in for the kill. A strike! Missed the throat, but the Apharetides is disoriented, so let's lunge at him, pinning him to the ground with a five-layered shield and Polydeukes' own considerable weight.

Oh. This looks like a very broken ribcage. Lynkeus' eyes are wild with shock.

A scream. Two men at once. The other twin?

No. Yes. Nononono. Your twin, Polydeukes.

He rushes to Kastor's side in a flash, barely registering the presence of Idas – and when he does register, it is only to hurl a giant rock at him. Try to recover from this one, will you?.

\- Hold on, Kastor! Please hold on, there has to be something…

But there is nothing that can be done. The mortal brother's face is a chalk-pale mask of agony, each breath more labored than he previous one, intestines spilling out of that vicious gut wound.

For an instant or two, his eyes regain focus, and, with the last of his strength, Kastor…

\- Behind you, - more croak than voice, but still enough of a warning.

The God-born twin turns around just in time to meet Idas' sword with the man's own spear, covered with Kastor's blood – now drinking that of its owner with no reservations.

The rock had not been enough. No matter. Somebody here seems to enjoy the sight of another man's guts. How about introducing him to his own? This shall not end with one stab.

Having disposed of his enemy, Polydeukes returns to his brother's side. Time is running out, escaping like water from a broken jug. Drop by heavy drop, breath by breath, slowly, but surely. No human healer can reverse this, there is no more strength in the dying man's body, and the living one feels himself grow just as limp and empty.

Without thinking, he calls for his father. A disjointed, broken prayer on impure land, at a time that belongs to the Khtonic Lords. Everything is wrong. But – so what?

The ruler of Olympos has heard this plea. Here He stands: mighty, broad-shouldered, black beard barely touched by grey. Limited, almost human, form containing more power than should be possible.

\- What is it, son? – He asks in a voice far too soft for one accustomed to being thunder itself.

\- You see what happened. Be merciful, save Kastor now.

\- You two have brought this upon yourselves. Understand, and accept inevitability.

\- Why, then, are our punishments different? – Polydeukes tries to scream, but can only rasp.

\- The son of Tyndareos belongs to the Underworld already. If you wish, you may follow him. Otherwise, you may choose to follow me to bright Olympos, for there is nothing tying you to the mortal world anymore. The decision is yours.

Immortality. Storms in his blood. Let somebody else have it, if they want.

\- The former. I am not going anywhere without him.

Zeus approaches then, putting His palm on Polydeukes' head. Instantly, there is a bolt of lightning piercing the man, turning blood and sinew to so much vapor.

Then, the forked lightning moves onto the mortal twin, binding the siblings with something more enduring even, than their former bond. And, impossibly, Kastor breathes once again.

\- If you would share the same fate, let it be so – but fairly. From now on, you both belong to death for half of the year, to eternity – for the other half.

And so it happens. The constellation of the Twins shines brightly above the world: Polydeukes the fist fighter, Kastor the horse-tamer. They travel – shoulder to shoulder - between the heavens and a shared kenotaph in Therapne, and eventually people begin calling on them for help. Contests, war, travel by land and sea. Particularly that last one: the twins were - are - excellent sailors.

When there is ghostly fire on the masts and rigging – without a doubt, the Dioskouroi are nearby.


	8. Eris and Eirene

Khaire - rejoice now, Mykene, far-famed for your gold and ruthless bronze, tall walls and solemn tholos tombs, heavy shields and swift chariots. But – woe mars your glory, for even wider is the fame of the Pelopidai's unappeasable curse.

Those descended from the son of Tantalos, killed and brought back to life, exile and welcome guest, betrayed and traitor – still bear an unmistakable ivory- white mark on their shoulders.

That foul feast's smell has reached distant lands indeed, and lingered for far too long. Some say, it may have been better had the children of Leto deprived Pelops of descendants altogether, as had been done to his elder sister Niobe – the man might have followed her example in turning to stone because of grief, but the world would have been spared so much poison.

That foreign family's rise to power in this half-barbarian land had seemed so effortless, after Eurystheus fell at the hands of the Herakleidai. But those who fear no enemy shall be brought down by a friend.

It never grew quiet – the voice of Myrtilos the charioteer, forever cursing his murderer, nor the echoes of Atreus and Thyestes' bitter enmity, hounding the next generation without mercy.

Crime after crime. The daughter and victim of Thyestes killing herself with his sword, that same sword in her unnatural child's hands, giving swift death to him who raised the boy…A red river overflowing, blood begetting blood, evil followed by evil, children no more than actors in a play written long before their time.

Miasma, abhorrent to Gods and humans alike – rust on bright metal, soot on exquisite fabrics, scarlet-stained hands.

Not all filth is easy to wash away. Miasma slips into the tiniest crack, waits unseen, consumes everything it touches. In the end, no matter how much one's path twists and turns, it is still bound to coil into a spiral named inevitability. Cycle after cycle, history cannot help but repeat itself.

Curses, spirals, doom and gloom – forget about those. The road to Mykene is well-built, the sun reigns in its zenith, the crowds are noisy and lively. Hardly the hub of the world, but close enough for Akhaia.

Menelaos leaves his chariot near the Lion Gate, in the care of his retinue. Wastes some time listening to a singer, who is entertaining the townsfolk with a story so ancient it is hard to recognize. Good voice, terrible phorminx, old and imperfectly crafted. So, Atreides sends a soldier to procure a new instrument from a decent craftsman, and a warm cloak besides. Then, without waiting for the task to be carried out, he heads straight to the palace, every single heavy step reminding him of the reason for this unseasonable journey.

Talthybios the herald shows little to no surprise at his visit. So what, if no more than a few days passed since his lord spoke to his brother? So what, if both still smell of kretan pines?

He informs the wanax of the unexpected arrival in his customary booming voice. The Atreidai meet in the middle of the megaron, throne forgotten, the planned daily ritual along with it.

A servant girl, who had just brought in the lion-head rhyton full of wine for the libations, hides behind somebody bigger in distress. Is the wine still needed? Should she stay or leave? There is red liquid slowly trickling down the golden beast's maw. Ruby drops all over the floor.

\- What happened in Sparta, beloved by Zeus? And do not say it took you but a few days to miss my company, I know this is serious, - Agamemnon demands.

\- She has been stolen. Helen, I mean. Paris took her. By the time I arrived, there was no sign of them. Nobody offered any resistance, and the servants are spewing nonsense.

\- What kind of nonsense? Also, have you sent ships after them?

The fair-haired Atreides grabs the rhyton before the servant girl can protest, glugs down the ceremonial wine without feeling the taste. If the ancestors take offence – let them.

\- Of course I have. There is also a search for Polydeukes and Kastor, those two should be informed. But nobody has seen them in a few moths. As for the servants, they insist they were asleep. As well as the stable hands, soldiers, singers, every last one of them. Convenient coincidence, no?

\- Well, your runaways are bound to resurface somewhere.

\- Out of reach, most likely. The Dioskouroi might have been able to catch up, tame the stormy waves – but no one else. Have you been listening at all?

\- Your men are failures, the twins have disappeared at the worst possible moment, your wife and her lover must have found somewhere to hide by now. What do you want me to do?

\- It would be best if we demand Helen's return together. Your word is weightier than mine. Priam is bound to agree. There is no way he expected something like this to happen.

\- Is the boy foolish enough to sail for Wilusa any time soon? That is the last place they would go, Menelaos. Search the islands, if you enjoy wasting time.

\- Yes, but, sooner or later, the criminal will head to the Troad, and the royal family…

\- Is sure to either make reparations, or, better yet, refuse.

\- Better? What are you talking about?

\- If they offer sanctuary to him who stole the Thunderer's daughter, and become accomplices to this impiety, what worthier pretext for war could we dream of? Xenia's sacred trust has been broken, the former suitors surely still remember their oath, and for the rest, there is the promise of the Troad's considerable riches, and control over Helle's Sea. For once, Akhaia shall know unity beneath Mykene's scepter, even if it is temporary. Thank you, dearest brother, your misfortune is truly a blessing in disguise.

\- Give thanks to the Gods for that, if you wish. I see no reason to. It does not have to come to all-out war. Dardanides shall not spit on the divine laws by harboring a bandit. He is a rational man who values peace and the prosperity it brings. Now, this newfound so-called prince… you know, while he took Helen's dowry along with her, the bastard left the two horses of Dardanian stock he had brought as a gift of friendship. His idea of a joke.

The elder Atreides cannot help but smirk. It's not his fault the stunt does happen to be entertaining. Somebody knows how to leave an impression.

Meanwhile, there is another matter to attend to. Klytaimnestra, Agamemnon's wife. A servant is sent to inform her of Helen's disappearance, willing or otherwise.

Not that the sisters had ever been close even as children, and certainly not after the daughter of Tyndareos married Mykene's previous wanax – only to become a widow and the bride of her husband's killer soon afterwards. But it is her right to know, so know she shall.

At last, the real task at hand. Talthybios busies himself with preparing the embassy, every single detail is discussed thoroughly, taking into consideration both a peaceful approach and an aggresive one. They should tread lightly, in case the king does indeed desire reconciliation. It would not do to subject both sides to the oikumene's ridicule due to blind haste.

What the high wanax fails to mention, is this: the lack of prominent nobles in the embassy might also anger Priam, making him more open to choosing war.

Not that Agamemnon minds.

Sandy Pylos welcomes the Atreidai with the same tranquility it offers any other visitor. Time might as well be standing still here. A place where the ruler knows his trade very well, passing that experience on to the next generation.

Or the one after that, and the next one is just about ready to join in. Neleides Nestor, the Gerenian horseman, who had known Herakles and Meleagros, is in no haste to surrender the throne.

Why would he? The man is justly regarded as wisest among Akhaia's chieftains, and his advice weighs more than gold.

Even without taking into consideration the city's wealth and power, securing Nestor's assistance is absolutely necessary.

Alas, due to old age, he had not taken part in the contest for Helen's hand. Therefore, he is not bound by any oath. Hardly a man quick to submit to brute force, either.

Therefore, it is time for persuasion. But, burdened by more than fifty winters, of what consequence would he find other men's quarrels?

Shuffle. Shuffle. Step by step, a procession painted on the wall continues its endless journey. The palace is full of colour, of crackling fire in Hestia's hearth.

As Menelaos' grievances are properly explained, the head scribe is scandalized enough to drop his stylus, while the city elders exchange worried looks.

Certainly, those who break divine laws deserve retribution. No one would question that. If the king of Wilusa decides to stand in the way of justice, the whole city shall be held responsible. Akhaia has no right to overlook such an affront. Not when the daughter of Zeus Himself has been stolen by either force or seduction.

At the very least, a show of military force is in order – while Eirene speaks, it is for Eris to accompany her. Aulis is already teeming with ships and soldiers, rallied by Helen's former suitors. The message: all the wanaktoi and basileis are prepared to let bronze speak, should words fail. Pylos is expected to join.

But still – the very idea of a large-scale war! Small ones have been the norm, but this is a different matter. Have Pylos and Gerene no need for their young men? Is there not enough trouble as it is – pirates stalking the Great Green, bandits, fierce Dorians in the north, led by the Herakleidai, iron fangs bared.

Threatening the Troad? It would have been better to mind Akhaia's own safety. As long as she is powerful, her enemies shall remain incoherent, keeping them under control mere child's play. But should the wolves smell weakness, notice a carelessly bared throat – well, what becomes of a calf made sluggish by the summer heat?

A tasty meal for the predators.

Agamemnon insists that a unified response to the Wilusan prince's actions will show their strength clearly enough. Who would underestimate an Akhaia that speaks with a single voice? Besides, the war is still merely a possibility. Most likely, the fugitives shall be returned – while the gathering army merely serves to hasten that outcome.

\- We would have been fools, had we expected to succeed without your wisdom and the might of your city, Neleides. Should you refuse, we may as well surrender to save ourselves further humiliation. With your guidance, however, victory is all but assured, and through that victory lies the path to a new Akhaia, unified and mighty, rather than the Khimaira we have at present.

Clearly, Atreides is in top form today. The grey-haired Gerenian horseman considers his options very carefully. An attractive enough rhetoric, but how much has gone unmentioned?

The wisest course of action would be to refuse assistance on a likely pretext, or limit interference as much as possible, abandoning other cities to bleed themselves dry. But – what next? Enemies, civilized and barbarian alike, would not pass up such an opportunity. Standing against them alone is impossible. For better or worse, Akhaia's proud cities need each other.

\- The empire you speak of, even if feasible, may be a curse rather than a blessing. Atreus aimed to make the other rulers dependent on him, yet look where it led him. Forgive me for speaking so of your father, but that is the truth. On the other hand, there may not be a choice. Both the mainland and the islands are whipping themselves into a frenzy, Krete is building new well-tarred ships… what is old age to do, besides support the folly of youth, lest that folly lead to ruin. Very well. May Hestia's hearth and Poseidon's salty waves be my witnesses, Pylos pledges allegiance to you in this endeavor.

\- I swear you will not regret it, Nestor!

\- Do not make promises you can not keep, wanax of golden Mykene. Some deeds are too great and terrible to not end in bitter regret. Right now, I see before me Aitolian Kalydon, I hear keening in the house of Oineus. We shall pay the price of greatness. But you have received my answer, so now let us share food and drink. Our plans can be discussed in detail afterwards. Antilokhos, Thrasymedes, do try to stay mostly sober during the feast, your father shall have need of you afterwards. I am no young man anymore, so you must be my hands and feet. If the high king has forgotten Euboia, you two are to visit Nauplios on his island. Let us prepare for war, children, for, even had Agamemnon truly desired to avoid it, the world would hardly obey.


	9. Troubled Waters

To be entirely honest, Kemet was not a place Helen expected to become one of the stops on her voyage to Wilusa – assuming the latter is even still the intended destination. Even less expected was the involvement of a bona fide pirate fleet. Polydeukes and Kastor would have been amused to no end.

There are men from Alashiya, Lazba, a motley of islands the swan-begotten cannot name. There are new ships, captured by Paris by the grace of Aphrodite Euploia. Day by day, this fleet is growing. Recently, a crew of sea brigands joined, which has been waylaying trading vessels for several years. Five ships, although only two of those are any good. Their captain is an experienced man, used to the Great Green more than he could ever be to Gaia's embrace.

He has an excellent hideout – a tiny island with a natural harbour well protected by cliffs, with barely any inhabitants. Grazing goats, enough freshwater streams – perfect. The runaway queen spent several moons there with a small retinue, while her lover was away raiding.

Until, of course, he decided to show her Kemet proper, starting with the Delta. There had been a lot of boasting involved, including a promise to enter the capital itself. Tremble, o ancient land, as you never did before!

She longs to visit so many places. But most of all - the White-Walled city, Scales of the Two Lands, fabled and sublime, beloved by Ptah. Flamboyant palaces, magnificent temples, multistoried houses of noble families – hardly anything superhuman, unless one believes the most absurd tales. There is no shortage of wonders in Akhaia, on Krete, on Alashiya, rich in copper. But those, who have laid eyes upon Kemet's greatest jewel, speak of it as if they were spellbound.

The Two Lands have architects, sculptors, artists, goldsmiths of incomparable skill, and, for all the grandeur of hundred-gated Waset or the new capital's bustle, the city of white walls is their true masterpiece. How radiant you are, sacred Men-Nefer on generous Hapi!

They never see it, of course. Not even from afar. All the sailors, both those from the Troad and he islanders he picked up, laughed at Paris' delusions from the very beginning.

This did not, however, prevent them from going along with the plan. Why not? Excitement, rich plunder – everything young men dream of before the realities of a sailor's life teach them to be content with less. Besides, the merchant ships carry enough wondrous treasure for everyone, Kemetic and kushite items worth a fortune each. No need to be bashful!

Usermaatre Setepenre, the great ruler – may health, long life and strength attend him – could not help but take note of the nuisance. But dealing with it personally would have been beneath his dignity. The pirates were forced to retreat by regular soldiers, helped by neither the old hero of Qadesh his own grand self, nor his tame lion, named Slayer of his Enemies – just like he king's previous pet beast.

Failure led to a significant decrease in crude jests and drinking.

This place has unfairly capable bowmen, sharp arrows, biting sickle-swords. How many of those, who had recently feasted and drank with everyone else, now lie dead on the shores of Kemet? Nobody wants to count.

The king's officers, on the other hand, are only happy to tally their victims. The traditional method is cutting off every fallen foe's right hand, or, for some people who do not practice circumcision, penis. Very practical.

Paris is unperturbed. How was he to know he makes a terrible raider, unless he tried? And his time was hardly wasted, either. The fleet managed to acquire truly impressive riches – the lion's share for himself and his lady, many valuables to divide among the pirates, exquisite gifts for the royal family.

Aineias stays silent for now, brow furrowed, disapproving glare rarely leaving the oblivious lovebirds. It would have been better to bind them both and leave at Menelaos' doorstep, but how?

The dardanian feels like a dog that has changed a dozen of masters, every single one of them demanding something different. Perhaps barking at the full moon would suit him well by now.

Priamides, meanwhile, wastes little time deliberating on the future. The Great Green shines seductively, time itself is on their side: eventually, Akhaia will get bored of its own rage, while Wilusa is bound to forget all those ill omens, as Priam promised. But for now…

Naturally, the best garments and ornaments that fell into their hands ended up in Helen's possession. Whether those can make her more beautiful, or it is she that makes them shine, is entirely debatable. He sees blue lotuses blooming in her eyes, red ones on her lips. There is lapis-lazuli, turquoise and carnelian, but the former cowherd yearns for newer colours.

On a pleasant morning, having made up his mind, Paris lazily asks the swan-begotten lady what she knows of Phoenician Sidon, which is about to be honoured with her presence next.

Helen keeps the true answer to herself – but she thinks, a part of her – the greater part – remained on the banks of Hapi, perhaps intent on seeing ancient Men-Nefer at last.

The bear is young, strong and very frustrated. What beast would be happy to encounter an intruder near his favorite river? By Artemis, the fish catch had been so good this morning, too.

The intruder is swift, focused and soaking wet. Young - still not even fourteen. He is also hungry. For meat, blood, action, the taste of victory – you name it.

The bear is strong, but ridiculously reckless. When it lunges at the boy in blind haste, he evades the attack, leaps onto a slippery stone in the middle of the river – shallow, but so very rapid - aims his javelin at the angry ursine face. If he can irritate it even further…

Luck is on his side. The bear, fearful of the sharp stick but unwilling to retreat, eventually makes a wrong move, loses its balance and falls into the water with a giant splash.

The human was barely able to remain on his precarious perch, too. Before the water spray can die down, he finishes his luckless enemy off, giving it no time to regain its bearings. His weapon finds the animal's throat without trouble.

Of course, it gets stuck. The victim's wild death throes break the shaft in two, leaving only half of it in the killer's hands. Then – silence.

This unnatural, grey quiet is finally broken by a soft rustling in the distance. Very, very deliberate. Heavy breathing. Four feet… no, hooves. How familiar.

The young man doesn't turn around. Of course, his teacher is announcing his presence. Had he wanted to, he would have appeared without warning, as if out of thin air. He does that.

The youngster is busy. He drags the mass of flesh that used to be a living being out of the shallow stream. Smaller children treat old playthings this way, stubbornly holding on to something that has become useless.

Well, the beast can be skinned, at least. But first – a treat.

He cracks the skull open with a jagged stone, and slips his fingers inside to find something moist and sticky.

This used to be somewhat gross, but now he simply enjoys the taste. Besides, they say an animal's brain or heart hold all its strength and courage. You eat those, you get a share. The question is – does the same hold true for humans? Just an idle musing, honestly.

When the ancient kentaur finally energes from the forest, the boy looks up from his feast – face filthy, smile guileless and out of place.

\- Khaire, teacher. Where have you been? It seems I need a new javelin.

\- Sooner or later, you shall have need of a great deal more than that, Akhilleus. But for now, your mother requires your presence. You are to leave Pelion.

The boy gasps. Thetis does not visit often, true, but she never found Kheiron's teachings lacking in any way. Perhaps, she may have preferred to see her child among the undying, but Peleus had prevented his wife from burning away Akhilleus'mortality.

Offended, the Nereid abandoned them both to their fleeting fate. Yet, when the time came for her son to begin training away from home, she agreed, that the kentaur patriarch's knowledge and skill have few rivals.

Trust is not an issue, either, considering that Peleus owes Kheiron his life. So why?

\- She would not be demanding this without good reason, I am certain. But let us go, dear student, you shall ask Thetis yourself. Perhaps she has foreseen something again.

\- If she has, I bet it's even worse than the last time. Wasn't it bad enough?

Kheiron gently touches the copper-haired boy's shoulder, not entirely convinced he won't be bitten for his trouble. Ahh, if only he could honestly say there is no reason for distress.

Unhappy child. The Nereid has predicted for him a choice between two possible fates. One – glory bright as a falling star, and just as brief. Two – long and peaceful obscurity. He shall have to decide on the path he is to take eventually, but – now? Too early. Not ready.

Nereus' radiant daughter does not wish her own flesh and blood any ill. Her love may be a melancholy tune, but it is still very real. But once Akhilleus leaves Pelion, the oikumene shall claim him, mark him for death even as he begins to learn what life is, and there shall be no going back. Who knows, Peleides might well make the first step himself.

The old kentaur, child of Kronos, has taught far too many heroes. In a way, the tiny realm of wooded Pelion, with its streams, pines, that spacious cave – does not exactly belong to the world. It has changed little since the Golden Age, and is likely to remain so forever.

A dozen, a hundred, perhaps a thousand Akhilleuses shall come, only to leap back into the river of time. How many more shall surrender to the current, how many – redheaded, black-haired, golden – shall be buried beneath the waves before their locks go grey?

The teacher's fate, meanwhile, is bound to this timeless place, and the best he can do is prepare them, himself remaining on the banks of the great stream. How can this ever be enough?

Ah. There he goes. A student who excels at killing and singing of glory. He has learned other things as well, but with little passion. If only there was more time…

\- Take heart, young man. She may have merely decided you need a different education.

\- Well, I don't. I want you to teach me, do you hear?

Unfortunately, the kentaur can hear all too well. It does not matter.

\- Akhilleus, please, before you meet your mother - make sure to wash the brains off your face.


End file.
